The Wolf - Part 1

A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss (in front of spring a’ burstin’) while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’. A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild, the alpha wolf wakes howlin’ then scents a lean and lonesome scene while on the lurk a’ prowlin’. A cloud revolts with spangled bolts, and starry skies start closin’ as wild geese soar beyond death’s door neath naked moon a’ posin’. Electric shafts, like fractured rafts, sail night’s cathedral caldrons – their cracking curse makes herds disperse in random splayed and sprawled runs. A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes; the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ - with weary back, he’s lost the track, his bandied legs betrayin’. The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair with mama left to mind ’em - the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag, is on his way to find ’em. The pack rejoins with weary loins - perhaps its days are numbered. In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight, with aches and pains encumbered. As morning nears, with shaggy ears (one droopin’ down, hung over) he’ll set the course with renewed force, for, yes, he’s still the rover. When snow enshrines the timberlines and skies are ripped asunder though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines, as gullies fill with thunder; mid echoes in the mouth o’ death, they bid farewell the lair while panting puffs o’ crystal breath float, hanging in the air. Their path is black (they can’t look back for herds long gone a’ missin’) as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains the sinkin’ sun was kissin’. Neath northern lights, with barks and bites, he keeps ’em all in motion – the speckled scars of fallin’ stars display the night’s devotion. The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east, and hollow wind’s are sighin’ while buzzards freeze in gallows trees, a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’. These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away, like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’, by tilted head, white fangs tipped red, and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’. ...... Continued in part 2 ......